Alone
by StarryFluff
Summary: I am lost and all alone. I hear laughter echo around me. Cold and triumphant. Suddenly the laughter changes. The pitch lowers and it turns into an insane laugh that is more than slightly familiar. This laugh is filled with pain. This is always my dream.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is kind of a sequal to Black Magic, my other story. But I think you can understand it even if you haven't read Black Magic. It's not written in the same style at all, but it's sort of what could have happened to my oc afterward... Oh, and of course all of the names, characters, etc. in this story belong to J. K. Rowling**, **not me. If they did belong to me, I'd be rich and famous, but they don't, so I'm not... yet. ;)**

I am lost and all alone. The wind swirls around me and I am lost in utter darkness. I can hear laughter echoing all around me. But there is nothing funny about it. It is high pitched and cold, unfeeling laughter. It mocks me and sees right through me. It is triumphant, it has taken everything from my, destroyed my life until there was nothing left. And it has no remorse. It chills my soul like a knife cutting into my heart.

Suddenly the laughter changes. The pitch lowers and it turns into an insane laughter that is more than slightly familiar. There is no mirth in this laugh at all. Not even the terrible triumphant hatred that echoed in the other one. This laugh is filled with pain, I'm not even sure if it could be called a laugh.

This one is worse than the last. It rips me limb from limb and destroys the little that is left of my heart. When I feel as though I will die if it goes on any longer, it stops abruptly. And I wake up in my own bed, shaking from head to toe. I wait for my heart rate to return to its normal speed and then slowly pull myself out of bed. It is still dark out, probably very early in the morning, but I can not sleep any longer.

The dream is always the same, night after night. Sometimes it lasts longer, and sometimes when I wake up it is morning, but the laughter, both the cold, high, triumphant one and the deeper insane one, is always there, always the same.

I glance at the mirror in the corner. I look terrible. As though I haven't had a good night's sleep in months. Which, as a matter of fact, I haven't. I turn to the window and look up at the sky. Before I went to bed it was snowing and cloudy. Now the snow blankets the street, sparkling brilliantly in the light of the quarter moon. No cars have been through the alley yet to muck it up. The sky is perfectly clear and the stars shine brightly.

I search the night sky and locate Orion's Belt. Without even meaning to, I find my eyes following their familiar path southeast across the sky. I stare up at Canis Major, the big dog constellation, and more particularly, a single star of that constellation, the brightest one. Sirius.

A blinding headache explodes through my skull. I stumble and fall to my knees. The excruciating pain pounds through my head as though someone has taken an ax to it. I cradle my head in my hands praying for it to end. Surprisingly it does. The pain disappears as quickly as it came, leaving me to wonder if perhaps I only imagined it.

Suddenly I hear something, I turn wildly, looking for its source, but with a sinking feeling I realize that I already know where the sound is coming from. I seem to know intuitively that it is inside my own mind, even though I've never heard voices before. But then, I've never been insane before, either.

"I'll always be there," it calls eerily. Echoing across the long empty months since it was said. Has it truly only been months since my life was almost normal? Could this be possible?

"I'll always be there…" I hear again. A harsh laugh escapes my lips, surprising even myself.

"You can't hurt me anymore," I say aloud, not sure who I am talking to. The voice? My mind? "I've already cried all the tears I have for you. I've got nothing left to give."

The insane pain-filled laughter rings dully through my mind. There is silence for a moment. Then the voice says, "I'm still here." It states this quite simply, as though the sentence is meaningless, yet somehow it embodies a world of meaning to me. I open my mouth, but then shut it, partly because I can think of nothing to say and partly because I am not even sure if I have to say things out loud to speak to the voice.

Suddenly I realize tears are dripping down my cheeks. Bummer, I was wrong. I have got tears left for you.

"You're not." I compromise by whispering. "You're dead to me. You died the day you left me."

"If I remember clearly, you were the one who told me not to try and save you." This is getting ridiculous.

"Who the hell are you?" I scream.

"You know perfectly well who I am."

"No, you aren't. He wouldn't say that."

The voice sighs, "No, perhaps not. But you can't imagine what it's like. How it changes you."

"What? Dieing?" I ask sarcastically.

"I'm not dead!" the voice exclaims. Ok, maybe it is you, after all.

"You," I say in a deathly whisper, "are dead to me. You ruined my life. You destroyed everything I ever loved. Including yourself." The voice is quiet again. Considering what I've said maybe.

I wait, still it says nothing. "Hello?" I ask finally, half hoping it's still there. Silence. It's gone. No wonder I'm insane.


	2. Chapter 2

I get dressed slowly, pulling on my usual pair of dirty jeans and a t-shirt. I run a brush through my hair, though there's really no point. My life isn't exactly glamorous.

I ride the rickety elevator down seven floors and the trip down the dark hallway and out onto the icy sidewalk. I take the underground across town and then trudge through the dirty snow for fifteen minutes and finally arrive at Tellings Primary, an ugly little brick building in the dodgiest part of the city.

I spend my mornings here, in a hair net and latex gloves, working in the cafeteria. No, it's not at all a glamorous job. It's not even a remotely fun or exciting job. But I get paid.

Though certainly not enough. I have to give all the bratty little eight-year-olds their ham sandwiches or their fish and chips and make sure each one gets a carton of milk and hands me their lunch money.

I've got absolutely nothing against little kids. I love little kids, or at least I used to. Once upon a time I even thought I might have a little kid of my own. But once you've been kicked in the shins every day for a week because you're not meant to give some whiny boy in year four an extra cookie, you get a little tired and a little resentful towards them.

After school gets out and I've wiped all that catsup stains from the tables and mopped up all the puddles of vomit from the cafeteria floor, I get back on the underground and head for the other end of town to the dingiest little diner in the entire city. I used to work at Morrison's until I realized they were paying me less than minimum wage. Before that I flipped burgers at a McDonald's until I decided it was probably bad for my health. And before that I worked at a pub on Oxford St. I had no idea how lucky I was and I was not in a great place to appreciate it. That was just after… Just after I escaped. And I quit because… Well, no, to be entirely honest, I was fired. For being delusional. Apparently I frightened the customers, though most seemed too drunk to really notice whether I was delusional or not.

Since then, I've come to terms with my insanity, though not with my income. I haven't been able to find a decent job so I make due with waitressing in the grimy diner. I serve rude people and dodgy old men and scrub grease out of greasy pans. The tips are lousy and sometimes even non-existent, but this is where I get my meager rations.

As the day slowly turns to night and I begin to forget where the first grimy tablecloth ends and the sixtieth greasy plate begins, I find myself sliding into a dazed stupor. The hours spin by and I feel as though time is going in circles. Finally all the customers have left. I'm the only one left, cleaning the final dirty dishes of the day. As I scrub rhythmically at the filth, I hear a strange sort of humming at the back of my mind. I try to block it out, but it grows louder and louder until I can hear nothing else. I think I may be getting even crazier. Suddenly I realize what it is.

"Shut up!" I exclaim. It stops. "Can't you hum somewhere else?"

"Does my humming offend?" the voice asks.

"As a matter of fact, yes." I really have to stop chatting with strange voices in my mind.

The voice sighs, if that's possible. There is a pause, then it says, "I've forgiven you, you know."

In spite of myself, I ask "What for?"

"For saying I was dead."

Suddenly all the energy disappears from me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I really do not want to discuss this. Not even with you. If it really is you.

"Fine. We won't talk about it. But you're going to have to face it eventually. You can't go on hiding from your past forever," the voice says.

"Oh, very deep," I say sarcastically. "Who says I can't?"

"You just can't. You're still you. You aren't really a muggle and you never will be."

I drop the bowl I've been scrubbing with a clatter. The word rings through my head as though someone has slapped me. I clap my hands to my ears before I realize that all this is only in my mind.

Finally I manage to say through gritted teeth, "Go away. Now. I never want to think about you again."

The voice laughs, the insane humorless laugh cruelly pounding against my skull. "That's the thing about voices in your head. You've got no control over them!"

I grip the side of the sink. It's right, there's nothing I can do about it. I'll never be free of you.

The voice isn't finished attacking the very source of my existence. "Stop pretending you've gone insane. You're only trying to hide from the truth you'll have to face."

"I'm not pretending!" I exclaim, catching myself by surprise. I am insane! I must be! "I'm not pretending," I say again, "Am I?" That I might actually not be crazy is far too frightening an idea for me to face.

"You are pretending. Believe me, I can tell you haven't really gone mad. I know what madness looks like. _I'm_ mad."

"No you aren't. He was never really insane. He just acted like it."

"Well, if I wasn't mad before, I am now. Honestly, you've no idea what it's like."

"You keep saying that! What are you talking about?" I say indignantly.

"You know what I'm talking about. Or at least the real you does. First you've got to admit that you know who I am."

"I haven't got a clue who you are!" Even I know I'm lying.

"No?" the voice asks, "I think you do."

I pause. There's no use lying any longer. My pretending to not know isn't helping me hide anymore. "Alright, so maybe I do know who you are. Or who you use to be. But why do you seem so different?"

"I told you. It changes you."

I take a deep breath. There's only one thing to say. "Why?"

The voice is silent for so long I think it might have left. I hold my breath the whole time. Finally when I'm about to pass out, the voice says, "Quit holding your breath. I can't tell you."

"Why not?" I explode. I'm pissed now. "You ruin my life. You kill everything I love… _everything_. And now you won't even tell me why you did it? I always thought, always hoped, that maybe there might be a reason. An explanation. I spent days but I couldn't come up with a single reason good enough that I would forgive you. But I still hoped that maybe, just maybe, there'd be something… I guess I really am delusional!"

The voice says something. Somewhere, deep inside me, I know it's my name, but I can't stand to hear that right now. It's just too painful.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry."

All the way home it echoes through my head. As I crawl into bed I feel so let down, so utterly devastated, that I'm not sure if I'll ever wake up again. Just before I fall asleep, I can tell he's there in my mind. "Sometimes," I say, "Sorry isn't enough."


	3. Chapter 3

I almost don't remember why I feel so miserable when I wake up the next morning. But then it all comes back to me of course, in one painful jolt. It's because of him.

I feel too miserable to do anything, even get out of bed. I'll probably lose my jobs, but who cares? They were lousy jobs anyway.

I do nothing but stare at the ceiling for an hour. I feel like I've gone back in time, to the first night after I escaped. Just to clear a few things up, it wasn't like my escaping was any brave or miraculous accomplishment on my part. The death eaters were captured by the ministry, Voldemort was already dead, and basically their whole genocide against muggle-borns thing was in ruin. After the first few days they didn't even bother with the Imperious curse. When they were taken to Azkaban all I had to do was walk out the door.

That first night was the worst. The worst night of my life. I had no idea what to do with myself. I couldn't face it. When I'd been kidnapped by the death eaters I hadn't had to think about anything. But suddenly I was free again and I had to think about all those things that had happened. That was why I had snapped my wand in two and thrown away my robes forever.

There was nothing I could do but give up and run away from it all.

After I finish staring at the ceiling I pull myself out of bed and walk around my tiny flat in circles for a while. I try not to think, I try to make my mind numb. Questions keep popping into my head that I don't know what to do with. I push them all away and try to hide behind my curtain of insanity, but to my surprise it's gone, it's been ripped down violently and all that remains is a distant memory of it.

He's been in my mind again, while I was asleep. I didn't know he could do that, meddle with the personal things I have in my mind. With a sudden chill, I wonder how much exactly he's seen.

"Don't worry," he says suddenly. I hadn't even noticed he was there. "I didn't do anything else. I promise I'll never look through your personal thoughts without your permission."

I've vowed never to talk to him again. All I want is to forget all of this. To go on just barely living in my own little world. I won't listen to him anymore. I want nothing more to do with any of that.

Unfortunately, I don't have to talk for him to hear me. And I can't stop listening to him. It's rather difficult to tune out your own mind.

He sighs sadly. "You know…" he pauses, "Never mind."

"What?" I ask, and then mentally slap myself. I wasn't meaning to talk to him.

"There was a time," he says, "when you used tell me about everything in your mind. Without me even asking."

"That time is long gone. Though it seems now that you'll know my thoughts whether or not I want you to."

"I told you. I'm not going to look through anything private."

"The time when I trusted you is also long gone," I snap. He's like a drug. I keep promising myself I won't take anymore, but I keep doing it anyway, even though I know it's not good for me. Except the high sucks. Big time.

"How am I not good for you?" he asks. Typical. He is so dense.

"How are you not bad for me?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"I am not answering that. Please go away!" I beg. See? I do have enough willpower left to ask him to leave.

"I'm so sorry. I honestly am." I can't help but believe him. There's a part of him that's still the old him. There's still the part that I used to love.

"Please don't make me cry anymore," I whisper, my voice cracking. "You kill a little bit of me every time you do this to me."

"Oh, Merlin. I'm sorry. I wish I could stop all this. I wish I didn't have to hurt you so much." I can tell from his voice that he's crying too. For a while we just sit and cry together in my head. It's a weird sensation really. There's tears on my cheeks, but also in my mind and after a while I can't tell which tears are real and which I'm imagining.

"Why do you do this?" I ask, "Why do you keep coming back?"

"Because…" He is silent for a moment. "You can't imagine how much of me is already dead. How much of me died, that night. How much I've killed. You're the only thing that keeps me alive."

I thought I was done crying. Apparently not. God, he's so selfish!

"No! No, it's not just for me! If you keep living like this, you'll whither away! Don't you see? You're barely alive! You can't go on not living!"

"But how can I live?"

"I don't know. You just have to. You don't have a choice. Or at least, I'm not going to give you a choice. I can't watch you kill yourself anymore."

I can think of nothing to say for a few moments. Finally, I swallow back another wave of tears and ask, "Now will you tell me why? Please? Please… Sirius."

He is surprised to hear his own name. He shies away for a moment. And then he smiles, a huge, purely happy smile. "I know why I keep coming back," he says. "It's because I still love you."


End file.
